One year ago today: September 16, 2015, largely inferior masses.
Five years ago today: September 16, 2011, early robot work.
Nine years ago today: September 16, 2007, Kiss-my-immee, Florida.
Random years ago today: September 16, 2012, Great Western Sugar Co.
MORNING
This morning up at 6:00AM to take advantage of the cooler dawn, only to hear the cry of the Texas jungle, “Where the hell’s my favorite coffee cup?”
I’m behind on the floor, having taken last evening off to do important things like fall asleep really early. I have this theory that the reason rich people seem so nice sometimes is because they can regulate their moods. They never have to go in to work in a huff and can schedule when it is they have to deal with goofs. My coffee cup was invisible under a layer of standing water in the work basin beside the sink.
I took to the insulation of the floor to avoid construction noise before the neighbors woke up, which arbitrarily happens at 8:30AM. That helps jog the reader that when I say four hours per joist, I don’t mean just the joist. It is also finished to the insulation layer, which includes hauling the batts in one-by-one from the storage shed. Say, speaking of sheds, I talked to a guy who bought his for $50 each because the lumber yard was discontinuing the model. I got the phone number.
Which turns the conversation to that 62 foot dead tree in the back yard. I found out the tree removal people charge by the type of tree, with oak being the heaviest and densest wood. For trees over 50 feet, I’m getting repeated quotes of around $1,500. That makes it a major operation.
Y’know, it is already 11:00AM, so I’m five hours into the job this morning. It is sticking to the four hour per joist pattern, even though I now have a system. I tell myself that’s because I’m now doing a much better job on each joist, which might just be true.
That was JZ on the phone. I advised him not to come out this weekend. Not only am I in the middle of everything, I would also put him right to work on that floor. Which I don’t like to do every time he shows up. The point is neither of us dislike work, but he doesn’t know his limits. And it always terrifies me when people don’t use any safety gear. This morning I had to delay a saw cut for ten minutes because I could not find my safety glasses. And yes, I was wearing a hardhat, dust mask, and steel-toed boots. Working alone, inside my own house.
I told him about the Judge’s house and also mentioned it to Trent. They are the only parties I know that even look at such a place. Yet both guys are aware of my research into the market and I’m not certain the high end properties are moving. The mid-range is, but Polk Country is populated by mid-range people with mid-range paychecks. The Judge’s house looks like it is holding it’s value, but if you read the pattern, it is being offered for sale in that range every year. It is not being sold every year. Read on for another interior pic of the place.
1946 movie.
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NOON
Guess what I had for lunch today. C’mon, take a guess. Ha, not Chicken Kiev, but man, I was tempted. I had stew on biscuits. Here is your trivia break. A lot of people don’t know what that little clip is called. Let me first explain why any one would remove such a clip. It’s because the stapler manufacturers of the world don’t make staples to any consistency. An Arrow T50 staple will jam in a Stanley T50 staple gun and vice versa.
If you point out in this age of computer and laser guided precision, there is no excuse for such misfits, they’ll tell you they have no control over how the other guy sets his machinery. If you mention that therefore they should not be calling their staples by a standard where no standard exists, they have already rung security. You’re leaving.
The item is known as an e-clip, go figure. They are among the easiest of pieces to lose, so be careful how to work with them. There seems to be no tool designed to put these clips properly back on, and if you get it half-way, it will spring back off, never to be seen again.
When repairing a staple jam, it is tempting to work from the front of the gun, but trust me, take the pin out of the back—being careful not to lose the tiny spring hook that goes around the rear pin that this e-clip holds in place. When you lose the clip, a bread tie wrapped a couple times in the groove will suffice.
AFTERNOON
It was a productive stretch, I got the north end of the joists done and it actually seems reasonably level. I had to call JZ and consult over that see-saw effect of the old joists, he says some of it is natural springiness of lumber, that the effect will be dampened by the weight of the flooring materials. So I continued because one thing is certain—the floor is way better than it was before.
Say, that is some pretty fancy chicken wire work there, if I must say so myself. This is a rarity in Florida, a fully insulated floor that is properly done. While the room is not fully insulated yet, and the ceiling is still bare, the quiet is very enjoyable. No bare-room echo already.
Quiet also imparts a sense of privacy, something I never knew as a child. I have no doubt this is why I consider it such a prized commodity. While I’m a very sociable person, that does not apply once I leave and go home. Privacy on demand, a true luxury. I never could understand the hostility of society toward individuals who want privacy. It must have to do with some primitive tribal or herding instinct that some sub-species of humans have never evolved out of. The type who burn people at the stake.
In my family background privacy was not allowed. Any hint of wanting to be let alone, whether you wanted privacy, peace and quiet, or even a moment’s solitude was viewed as secrecy, and secrecy was always attack on the God-given right of the majority to constantly snoop into everything you do or say or think or don’t do or don’t say or don’t think or don’t do. You must be up to something and there will be no rest until all is discovered and converted into malicious gossip.
Yes, I want a quiet, private, room. Who knows, snoops of the world, I may even keep some secrets in there, just to infuriate you.
NIGHT
Talk about a full day’s work, that is something I haven’t done since December 26, 2003. Can’t. I may have to stop and rest every ten minutes, but that isn’t the point, is it? Here is the deck area, the part of the floor I will finish to the subfloor as a work area until JZ gets here. The tape on the insulation seams makes the staggered pattern of the new 16” O.C. joists more apparent from this angle. Nothing short of an act of God is going to move that floor now. You can see how level it is from here.
The existing electrical is slightly re-routed and a complete second circuit is planned to double the number of receptacles, including two on the exterior. These will be switched from the inside with pilot lights. Strange how a place with such a wild yard has no exterior outlets. I don’t care for gasoline powered yard tools in the city and I don’t care for the people that use them, either. You know who you are.
I further need part of that room for storage. I’ve got a dozen boxes that don’t have to be unpacked for a while yet, and I don’t like them underfoot. I’m happy with the progress considering the amount of time I’ve actually been here uninterrupted. That’s something like 19 days now. Here’s a photo of the pilot light switch. It indicates when the power is on.
After tallying up the cost of the attic insulation blower, including the time to get and return it, plus the requirement to become a “member”, I’ve decided to forego that option. The membership is a credit application, which I have nothing to do with--on principle alone. Certain things are against my will.
Remember me? I’m the guy who warned in 1981, the day I got my first home computer, that the credit system was going to use this device to intrude on people’s affairs far beyond anything to do with borrowing money. Was I right or was I right? Just you try getting a job or renting an apartment with a low credit score. About this same time I warned that insurance companies would be doing the same thing, gathering information that impacted on every area of your life without regard to what is actually being insured. Too bad the world didn’t listen, huh?
The attic itself requires only eight batts of insulation between the rafters. There is a further layer that goes crossways over those up to an R-30 standard. That is, the insulation shields the one side from a 30°F temperature difference on the other side. On paper.
Later, I went up to Wal*Mart expecting to spend ten or twelve bucks on new underwear and socks, two items I do not splurge on. Wrong, it was $35 for six boxer shorts and six pairs of socks. On top of that, I bought a Mechanics Illustrated, so that was my miscellaneous budget for the entire week. It’s a good thing I love grits.
I stopped to hear a country band, and they were lousy, with no bass player. Once a musician gets the “guitar-think”, most never learn better for life. It ain’t their fault God made it that way. The specific kind of band, by the way, that would have plenty of trouble keeping a bassist. No, let me rephrase that. That band will never have a decent bassist except in their guitar-fogged opinions. (“He could follow good.” Two studio-trained guitarists who played two or three deadly versions of new country to start each set, but then rottenly faked the classics the rest of the way.
Sorry, I know the con throughout. “I don’t know this crap either, guys, but I told them we are a country band to get the gig.”
These guys were half my age with maybe a tenth of my experience at that time. And they will never get any better or incorporate a good bassist because the guitar rot is rooted too deep. Zero audience participation, it was all “look at me”.
Nor did the music mesh properly, each person played only their part, except possibly the drummer but that is a judgment call. His timing was excellent, but after ten tunes, everything he did sounded like accompaniment. Everybody was politely listening, but nobody was paying attention. They utterly slaughtered any tunes that had a distinctive bass line. I had to wait for the lyrics to figure out what they were playing. Worst example, “Momma Tried”. Guys, that was really bad.
Last Laugh
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